We are the Differences: Drabbles
by Cookie Master's Apprentice
Summary: Companion drabbles to my story, "We are the Differences". One: Sweyn wasn't prone to get stuck, but now he was. And he was in desperate need to go to the bathroom. Tempest wasn't helping either. He hated that dragoness sometimes. R&R.
1. From Stuck to Momentary Bliss

_A batch of drabbles for my story "We are the Differences" but can sort of stand alone. Some will be sad, happy, touching (although I have little idea of how to write something touching), etc. Featuring mostly Sweyn since we are already reading from Tempest's point of view in WatD. Other characters also. Third person point of view. Please read this and wait for my brain to supply me with new ideas for said story._

_Enjoy!_

**1. Stuck**

Sweyn wasn't famous for getting into any sort of sticky situation that he couldn't get out of, with great amount of pain or no. He has this…special gift to take off and run away from any problem, literally or figuratively.

And now he was snagged. With no way out – or more accurately, _down_. Not to mention that he has to go to the bathroom.

It didn't help that his savior was ignoring his needs.

"Come _on_, Tempest!" Sweyn called from the second highest branch of the Left Oak. He was hanging there from his belt. He'd fallen from a disastrous fall and now here he was. His life was saved but not his dignity. He'd tried to undo it, but he knew if he did, he wouldn't come out unscathed. There was a very big, very hard rock to race and meet him after a seven-foot fall.

Said dragoness was regarding him with interest. She was sitting right before him, curled up except for her neck, her sky-blue eyes regarding him with amusement. To call Tempest stupid was a mistake as well as inaccurate even if Sweyn could bring himself to do it. Intelligence had shown in those eyes every time he looked at her, and he had the idea that she must be as old as a century and as intelligent as any human – or even more so.

No, Tempest wasn't stupid, he decided. She was just exceedingly _infuriating_.

"Tempest, will you get me down?" Sweyn tried again, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice and be polite. He let the urgency show, though. "I'll give you extra meat if you do," he coaxed.

Tempest looked at him, unimpressed. Bribing wasn't going to get this anywhere.

Sweyn huffed out a long sigh and hung there for a bit longer. Several more minutes passed in silence while Tempest continued to gaze at her companion as she seemed to wait for something. Oh, yes, she was waiting for something alright.

Finally, Sweyn gave in, the need to relieve his bladder apparently overthrowing his Viking-born and Viking-raised stubbornness. "Tempest, could you_ please_ get me down?" the young hunter begged.

Within five seconds, he was lowered gently to the ground and he took off running to the nearest bush.

Tempest looked after the back of her rider and thought about how close a win that had been. Had he waited only some more seconds and she would have caved in. She frankly couldn't keep her heart from having a major breakdown whenever Sweyn went around asking for something sincerely. Whether it was a short run on her back through the forest or a trip to the eastern isles for a week, she would give it to him. She was well aware that she was spoiling the child, but what does it matter? He has never even been treated nicely before, as far as she knew.

But when it came down to the end, Tempest won this one.

Triumphant, the Timberjack dragoness picked herself up and went to relieve _her_ business as well.

**2. Death**

Of all the things Vikings were permitted to fear, it wasn't death.

Death had become almost a normal thing around Death Rock and any other Viking village for that matter. Saxons, attacking Viking tribes, dragon raids – they could all mean possible death. So the Vikings hardened up not only their body but their hearts as well, preparing for the grief that would come when they would be informed that their kids, wife or husband didn't make it.

Sweyn Hocksson was different. He feared death more than anything.

He feared the very _idea_ of it, that one day he wouldn't be able to see his family again. He feared that one day he would go out in the forest and meet his gruesome end at the claw of a dragon or bear or wolf.

But peculiarly enough, he became a hunter. He camped in the forest at night and trained himself relentlessly in the art of knife-fighting, knife-throwing and agility. Sweyn wanted to _overcome_ the things that might bring him death, because he realized that if he kept skirting them, _they_ will come to find him and end his life, and he wouldn't know what to do then. So he did his best to see the threats in his life that he had no control over.

It was fear of death that drove him on, even though it made others in his village looked on him with disgust and spite. He wasn't a proper Viking, they said. And Sweyn did not strive to please them.

There was a time the boy hated what he feared. He had tried to go face a dragon in a raid, but then when it came close, his flight mechanic had always won out with "fight", and he'd taken off to save himself. He wanted to see the sun rise again. He didn't want to be buried in the ground or sent to float on the sea. He wanted to climb, to move around, to feel alive – to _be_ alive.

Six years after Sweyn gave up trying to conquer the fear itself, at the age of thirteen, that very fear and the determination to live born from it won him ultimate respect from a certain dragoness.

**3. Pity**

Alfdis Archadsson wasn't discontented with her lot in life. She was the chieftain's youngest daughter and her talents lied in the art of sewing and tailoring, which she was outdoing her own mother's day by day. Nobody expected her to fight. Her big brother and big sister made sure she was comfortable and happy. In return, she made sure to keep their shields and weapons shined, their clothes nicely washed and reminded them to take a bath every week.

Thus, Alfdis could not quite understand what Sweyn Hocksson, that mysterious kid with the pure black hair and darkened grey eyes was really thinking. And that meant she would try.

Her first attempt was answered with a single blunt statement, "I don't need any pity." And he'd taken off running into the forest, jumping over boulders without need of a boost aside from his own springing force.

The next two weeks, Sweyn avoided her. But Alfdis wasn't going to give up. She was prying, and unlike this kid, she didn't care to make it discreet.

On the third week, Alfdis somehow managed to corner Sweyn near the forest when he was roasting some deer on his own. She'd seated herself across from him, and she'd said clearly, "I don't make friends with you because I pity you."

Alfdis hadn't needed to explain herself after that. Sweyn had looked at her with those piercing grey eyes for a few moments before a small smile curled his lips. "So, how good is your aim?" he'd asked casually.

They were eight years old at the time.

**4. Push**

Keg Gesson liked to bully Sweyn. The kid was the most inviting target to ever walk Death Rock, for real – he wasn't Viking-like at all, he was a coward, he was frowned on by so many people…It was like Sweyn was _born_ to be serve as a bully's punching bag.

Too bad that wouldn't happen too often. Sweyn could fight, underhanded methods or no. And his kicks were rather well-placed when he was enraged. Not to mention the pointy knives. Oh, yes, the knives. Sweyn hardly ever missed with them. Keg supposed that was what you get after you practice throwing for eight years in a row.

But suddenly Sweyn came down with a fever. And Keg caught him sitting at the edge of a cliff, talking to himself. Despite his sickness, the slim boy had refused to be contained in the house and snuck out nonetheless, bringing with him nothing except for two knives.

So Keg had taken the once-every-five-years chance: he'd walked straight to the turned back that would've usually shot up and thrown a knife at him when he was several feet from it and gave it a hard kick at the shoulder with his booted foot, sending Sweyn flying over the edge. Then Keg had taken off running, grinning all the way. Just wait until that wimp showed up again.

Big mistake: Sweyn was _not_ talking to himself, but to a sleepy Tempest who was curled up right beneath the very short cliff (nine feet). Imagine the dragoness when her friend suddenly went over the cliff. She could not catch him in time, however, and although Sweyn would've most likely landed on his feet, he was ill. That meant he landed on his side in the snow-covered ground that'd hardened to ice.

The result? Sweyn sprained an ankle banging it against a rock. Keg's sheep suddenly went missing – every single one of them. And there was that vengeful-looking white-striped-black Timberjack dragoness launching a fireball through Keg's bedroom window one night. Keg lost his eyebrows on that incident.

Up a tree close by, Sweyn grinned like an idiot that he tried very hard not to look like. Extra scratching for Tempest that week.

**5. Momentary Bliss**

The dragon didn't seem to care as he landed on its back. It took flight upward, away from the crumbling rocks, and for a moment, Sweyn felt the air and the bliss of flying in open sky. His feet weren't touching the ground. He was actually _floating_. It wasn't the short rush of winds as he jumped from a tree. It was all-out _flying_.

Sweyn grinned and closed his eyes, momentarily forgetting that he was on top of a beast that might end his life or chuck him off anytime. He just enjoyed the air, because he knew it would be the last time he felt something like this, no matter if he got out of this dead or alive.

But then the dragon gave him a look, and Sweyn challenged it with his gaze.

His momentary bliss was shattered as his ride started the death dance.

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_Do tell me what you think in a review. I'll love to hear from you._

_~the Apprentice._


	2. And Then From Unpredictable to Weeping

_I hit a snag with "We are the Differences". Hm, I'll try to find the inspiration again. But I don't want to give you guys a crappy chapter, so it might take some time to finally put the real chappie together with quality. So sorry, folks!_

_And the good news: my parents decided that we won't move, so I definitely will finish the OC story. Kinda hard not to, with you guys supporting me so much. And don't worry. This drabble series is just to get many ideas that I couldn't put into the main fic out of my head. I'm not abandoning We are the Differences._

_Review!_

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6. Unpredictable**

Tempest tended to predict a lot. And her predictions were not all that bad – she did them base on facts. She could certainly tell which season the humans would flock the forest looking for food or when they will suddenly have the urge to go dragon-hunting (and turned out to be dragon's food). She could even tell if the dragon she was fighting would strike left or strike right first. And she was pleased with her ability. It made her feel safer if she knew what was coming.

Sweyn wasn't going to give her that safety.

Tempest expected him to be early after a few weeks of seeing him wait for her at the Twin Oaks. The very next week, he let her wait an entire morning. His reason was because "my mom made me fix the window I busted". He refused to answer her how he busted it.

Tempest expected him to hate cliffs since one of them nearly cost him his life. And he went jumping off even _more_ cliffs. They were short ones, though, under nine feet high so Sweyn could practice "landing on his feet". It scared the daylight out of the dragoness several times. Tempest walked away from the grinning boy muttering anything that ranged from "idiot" to "mush-brain" and beyond.

Tempest expected him to hate aerial acrobatics after the very first time they flew together (and _boy_, wasn't that a disastrous flight). He begged her to show him some more, and he laughed like a maniac when she did.

Tempest expected him to be weird. He acted like a completely normal kid a week into knowing her. He would hunt, he would treat her like he would any other friend, and he would smile triumphantly whenever he beat her in a chase.

Then she expected him to remain that way. And suddenly he had the urge to kick the trees with all his might, stub his toe and cussed them out for it.

In fact, one of the only few things Tempest would expect Sweyn to be that was really correct was that he trusts her. And frankly, Tempest didn't mind being wrong all her life about him if only that one fact remained true.

**7. Nickname**

"Tempest, why do you keep calling me that?"

"Calling you what?" Tempest answered distractedly, her eyes too busy picking out footprints in the snow as she tried to copy her friend's method of hunting. Sweyn's grasp on Dragonese had gone from so-so to excellent in the past three months, so now they could speak to each other freely.

"You know, you always make that low growl-y noise when you see me," Sweyn explained, kneeling to examine a bunch of cracked twigs.

That made the dragoness looked up. She regarded him quietly for a moment. "You'll get mad if I tell you," she said at last.

Sweyn blinked, returning her look. "No, I promise I won't. Tell me," he prompted.

Tempest told him. Sweyn's answer after a few moments of open-mouthed silence was to send a volley of arrows at her. They started a chase through the forest and, for once, Tempest was the mouse.

The word Tempest used to call Sweyn was the equivalence of "peculiar". In direct translation, "weirdo".

Another note for the dragoness: Sweyn despises being called a weirdo.

**8. Vengeance**

"Sweyn, hold on," Lugar Hocksson's voice trembled slightly despite his desperate attempt to keep it steady. But it wasn't as if he could help it. He has seen his friends die before, young and old, but none had been his little brother.

On the bloody floor of the forest clearing, bustling with Vikings and medics, Sweyn Hocksson lied gaping at the sky, a thin line of blood trickling from his lips. On his side was a stab wound of a scimitar, going right through him. It has missed his lung, but it was bleeding profusely. A Viking from the invading tribe had done that.

At his brother's voice, the fourteen-year-old turned his eyes to Lugar's face. A dour smile touched the bloody lips. "I won't die," Sweyn rasped out, but his voice was adamant. "I…fear death too…too much for that." He coughed, and Lugar's hand shot to touch his face gently.

"Don't talk," the older Viking whispered just as a medic knelt next to them. Leaving his brother in the healer's hands, Lugar seized the spear next to him and charged back into the forest, vengeance flashing in his remaining eye. Cold fury guided his steps, sharpening his senses, and he quickly spotted the unmistakable gray shape, made so by the dark, appearing by his side.

He shot the large, hatred-filled blue eyes a look before leaping onto her back. Together, they launched up a tree, into the sky, and toward the leaving ships approaching Loki's Field. These invaders would not die by drowning tonight. Tempest and Lugar would make sure they die a more fitting death.

**9. Women**

"I dare you to jump into the sea, _naked_!"

"You are _on_, Little Bro!"

Alfdis tossed her wooden plate. It bonked against Sweyn's head with some noise. Mentioned boy turned to glare at her as though she's gone mad.

"What is that for, woman?" he demanded.

"In case you have not noticed, Sir Dumb and Sir Dumber, it is still _winter_. Do you want to freeze to death?" Alfdis shot back, glaring from Lugar to Sweyn, who was massaging his head and wincing.

"So?" Lugar shrugged. "It's all the more fun."

Alfdis rolled her eyes, then looked at the dragoness currently sitting with her tail curled around the girl. "Tempest, why don't _you_ try convincing them?" she offered.

Tempest opened her eye to regard the two kids in question before making up her mind.

When the three children returned home that afternoon, Alfdis was ranting, Tempest was rolling her eyes while Lugar and Sweyn kept muttering about fussy women. The little gentlemen's clothes were singed, and they looked like they've spent time lying under a dragon's claw. Er, dragon_ess_.

**10. Weep**

Vikings weren't allowed to cry. Tears were only a hindrance, both in battle and in front of others. It showed that you are weak, that you couldn't take a matter without breaking down. In battle, it made your eyes go blurry, making your sight short.

All in all, crying was for the weak.

Sweyn smiled bitterly at the Viking logic as he curled himself into a ball under the oak tree. The sky was clear blue. The weather was as perfect as it could be for a Death Rock winter. It was like the gods were _mocking_ him.

But what was he saying? They always had.

Now those gods decided that the day his uncle die was also the day to celebrate.

Sure, Horace was a good man and everyone would mourn his death, but to Sweyn, the tanner meant more than just that single person who suffered smelly conditions to make precious wearing materials for the village. Horace has always been fun to be around with. He hasn't wrinkled his nose whenever Sweyn showed his face at his workshop, instead inviting the boy outside to have some snack after the young hunter handed over the pelts. Sometimes there was even a present for Sweyn: several pieces of good leather, a few nice bowstrings or even a knapsack.

And suddenly he has a heart attack. And he was dead. Just like that. Poof. One night. The next morning, gone.

The world was an unfair place.

One tear trekked down the pale face. Then another, then another. Sweyn buried his face into his arms and just let them out, trying not to sob too often out of habit if nothing else. He didn't know when, but he fell asleep.

What seemed like mere minutes later, he was roused from his sleep by the smell of sulfur. An explosion followed, chronicled by the sound of something like a sharp, large blade slamming against the tree trunk, making him yelp and grappling blindly for his knife, though he didn't come through with the action. When his eyes cleared again, he realized that there was a big white wing over him.

The noises died down to mere crackling sounds of small embers. The wing was removed, and he found himself staring into worried blue eyes. As his thoughts started to flow freely and coherently again, Sweyn relaxed. He traded a few words with the dragoness he'd nicknamed "Tempest". Her presence enabled him to kick the remorse out for awhile. He would continue to mourn later, but not now. He knew his time with her was limited. No secret could be kept forever.

Still, as of now, Sweyn was willing to at least forget sorrow for awhile.

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_The last one, "Weep", was the explanation for chapter 11's question: why was Sweyn crying? It was a crappy explanation, but I hope you guys didn't find it too bad. So do you guys have any requests for drabbles like this in which I can fulfill? Any moment in WatD you might want to view from Sweyn's P.O.V? Leave me a note in your review._

_I wanted to do a bit more on Lugar, so there you go. I hope you don't find his character annoying._

_I appreciate your support on both this fic and the main one,  
~the Apprentice_


	3. Now from Fun and Game to Forgive Me

_First one is for a request: Sweyn when he was being chased by Tempest. I sort of went overboard with number 13. But I liked it._

_Oh, yeah, and the disclaimer!_

_Disclaimer: Sweyn is mine, Tempest is mine, Alfdis is mine, Hock is mine, Lugar is mine, and Death Rock is mine. How to Train Your Dragon (c) Dreamswork. Well, that wasn't so bad!_

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**11. Fun and Game**

Sweyn jumped over a large fell tree in his way, landed in a crouch and kept running. He could hear the dragon right behind him. It was getting closer, he feared, and heaven forbid, he could've sworn it was enjoying this. That was so unfair. Why did he have to worry about his death while he was lowered to being the entertainment of a dragon?

But Sweyn didn't want to die. Sure, his life back at Death Rock village was a miserable one, but it _was_ a life. He wasn't going to let go of this world that easily. And it wasn't like he would like to see Keg (that coward was the one who got him into this in the first place!) or any other look down at his corpse in pity anyway. They have already looked upon him with not much good intention when he was alive. He would not let them see him dead. He would survive. He would laugh in their faces.

Sweyn's face hardened, and he increased his pace. He has an excellent idea to throw the dragon off. It was time to get creative. Watch out, World. Sweyn Hocksson is about to best a dragon.

**12. Present**

"Oh, wow," Sweyn murmured in amazement, holding up the thing Tempest had just given to him. It was a dragon scale, but unlike most dragons', which were dull and small, this one was the size of a large coin, smooth, and it looked like it was a piece of the blue sky above. The color was the exact same, and when Sweyn held it up above his head, it really _was_ the sky's duplicate.

The hunter looked at Tempest in wonder. "What is this?" he asked.

"It's a Skydragon scale," Tempest explained. "They are rare, but a few can be found around Death Rock sometimes."

"Like, how rare?" Sweyn sounded dazed.

Tempest emitted an indifferent grunt. "About one of those every thousand years, I'd say," she replied, curling her tail around her partner and looked at the boy with a toothy grin. "It is beautiful, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is," Sweyn admitted, looking at the scale in his hand. Then he glanced at his friend. "It reminded me of your eyes."

Tempest blinked. She hadn't expected that. She'd thought that since humans slept indoors much of the time and couldn't stay out in the rain, Sweyn would like something that reminded him of the sky. But that didn't mean she would complain.

"Happy birthday," she told him instead. "It is the twelfth of the third month, is it not? You told me you were born on this day. Do you not remember?"

The look on Sweyn's face told her that no, he did _not_ remember. But that look was wiped away with an all-out grin that even Tempest didn't get to witness very often. The hunter got up and pressed his forehead against the dragoness' cold snout.

"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you for remembering something even I forgot."

**13. Conversation**

"Dad?"

"Yes, Sweyn?"

"Do you think it's going to be a girl?"

"Sweyn, will you quit that? Don't say bad luck!"

"Lugar, it's entire possible –"

"La-la-la! I do _not_ want to hear it!"

"Quiet, both of you! I heard something."

"Hey, who's that running up to us?"

"Lugar, don't tell me your remaining eye's failing you. That's Alfdis."

"Nonsense. Alfdis's hair isn't blonde."

"Oh, no. Tempest dyed it that color. Remember the yellow sticky pollen?"

"Oh, right."

"I would like to know who this Tempest is someday, boys. You two seem to be talking about her a lot."

"No, no, Dad! You must not meet her! She's, er, a lonely old hermit living in the forest, and she, er, doesn't like visitors!"

"Yeah, yeah! Sweyn's right. A very…cranky, rude hermit. She only wanted us around!"

"Is that so? Then how come you said just the other day at dinner that –"

"Lugar, Sweyn, Hock! Sorry I'm late! How's the baby coming along?"

"Doing fine till you showed up. Now it's gonna be a hard one. Ow! That's my foot, woman! Ow! There you go again! _Ow_! Quit!"

"Lugar, shut up. You can live with a dagger through your side, you can live with a bruised foot. Dad, please don't laugh. You're encouraging her. Alfdis, stop stomping on my brother's foot and _sit down_."

"Gods, Sweyn, you're sounding like Mom on a bad day."

"On second thought, Alfdis, keep stomping. This time on his face, please."

"Hey, I'm hurt!"

"Hurt my a –"

"Sweyn! Where did you learn that sort of language?"

"No offense, Dad, but you're kinda loud when you cussed the door out last month for stubbing your toe."

"Colorful, too."

"Yep."

"Oh, great. Now my _sons_ are teaming up against me. Alfdis, say something!"

"They had to learn it some time. The sailors down the docks aren't exactly careful what they said."

"What have I done for you kids to hate me so much?"

"You made me finish the fourteen orders for _you_ on a perfectly fine day."

"You broke my sword and didn't buy me a new one – and I'm still waiting!"

"You didn't do anything wrong to me, but I like to stand with my friends."

"Well-spoken, Chieftain's Daughter. Sweyn, you owed me sixteen projects. I am merely evening the score. Lugar, your sword was _bent_, not broken."

"Still, Dad, I don't think the enemies would be very flattered if I brandish a bent sword in front of them."

"Oh, come now. It's not that bad."

"It's nearly bent _double_, Dad. That is considered broken. Can't you settle your little feud with the blacksmith some time in the next decade?"

"Thank you, Sweyn!"

"Think nothing of it. But you are riding Tempest next week. You need the practice."

"Wait, wait! What is this? You are telling me that you are _piggyback-riding_ an old woman –"

"_It's a girl!_"

"Oh my gods! The first girl in the family! Congratulations, Hock! Lugar, why are you sobbing? Sweyn, cheer up! What's wrong with you two boys?"

"Lugar, you are wetting my shirt – Ew! Go blow your nose somewhere else! We're having a bet with Keg about the baby's gender."

"And now I'm losing my sword! No-o-o-o! Heavens, why are you so cruel?"

"Your sword is broken, idiot. Give him that and buy a brand-new one. As for the saddle I promised him, I'll make sure to rig it. Ah, what I wouldn't give to see a donkey trampling that jerk."

"My sons do not go behind others back! Wait, is it Keg Gesson? Son of Ges Thompson?"

"Yeah."

"Then rig it, my boy! For all I care, rig it!"

"So much for honorable fathers. But I wouldn't complain! Lugar, I _said_, I am not your personal handkerchief! Off me. Now."

"Just a bit longer…I can't stand this emotional lightning strike…"

"Lugar, why did you have to lose an eye and not a nostril? 'Cause I'd rather be soaked in tears than in – ARGH! _Lugar, that is GROSS_!"

"I'm thinking Lugar's doing this just to spite Sweyn."

"Of course. But al least they aren't fighting for real. Sweyn, watch where you are running! I do not want that statue broken!"

"Tell Lugar to stop – EW! _Getofgetofgetofgetofgetof_!"

"Ooh, that went a bit too far. Blowing your nose on your brother's tunic."

"And now he's sneezing into Sweyn's back collar."

"Boys are gross."

"Indeed, Alfdis. The very reason why I have always begged the gods for a girl. And now my prayers are answered!"

…cricket…

"Why are we sitting here watching the boys in the cold?"

"Right. Tea, Alfdis?"

"Of course."

"LUGAR! YOU OWE ME A NEW TUNIC, YOU HEAR? AND YOU ARE _PAYING_! NO, YOU WILL NOT MAKE IT YOURSELF! YOU WILL BUY FROM THE SEAMSTRESS!"

"Whatever."

"And it has to be the most expensive!"

"Of course."

"And it has to be –"

_Bonk_.

"Alfdis, what was _that_ for?"

"Sweyn, shut up."

"Ha-ha-ha-ha!"

_Bonk._

"Lugar, say _nothing _else_._ I still have more wooden dishes at my disposal."

**14. After the Conversation**

Tempest looked from the scowling Sweyn to the sniffling Lugar to the rolling-her-eyes Alfdis with curiosity. "Care to tell me what's going on here?" she prodded. Sweyn translated sulkily.

Alfdis explained the entire thing while Sweyn glared at Lugar, who proceeded to completely ignore his brother. Tempest listened without interruption, and when the girl was done, the dragoness stared at the boys.

And stared.

And stared some more.

For most of that morning, the wood echoed with draconic laughter.

**15. Forgive Me**

_Sweyn, hold._

Somebody was speaking. But who was Sweyn? He has the sneaking suspicion that it was a name he ought to know. Was it his name? Was it the name people used to call the kid with the raven hair and the grey eyes? For the life of him, he couldn't remember. He didn't have the strength to.

_Little Brother, please!_

Ah, that voice again. It was persistent. It was annoying, too, but he liked it. He knew that he could trust the owner with his life. Not that he had much to look forward to if he did make it out of this one alive. His will to live have bailed him through the tortures those pirates put on his fourteen-year-old body, but a human could only go so far. And alas, he was only a human.

_You promised. You fear death too much to die, remember?_

Yes, he remembered. He used to be scared of death. But what is there in life to look forward to? Tempest was dead, a lance through her heart. Alfdis was raped and killed for their own amusement, then thrown overboard. His own fingers were dislocated. His legs – he couldn't feel them at all, and he knew he'd lost the ability to run. They hurt, but it was just a dull sensation in the back of his mind. His _body_ felt numb now. He could barely feel the desperate hand grasping his own.

Silently, tears rolled down his cheeks. He has nothing left now. His family would be mended if he lived, but his heart would never be whole again. He couldn't go on living if there was nothing to live for. His own good seemed like an absurd idea now that those he loved dearly were really gone. Slain before his eyes. He has watched, and he has been able to do _nothing_.

It was time to let go. He could bear this no more. He wanted to apologize to his family, but if he decided to live to that point, he would never let go again. He would live to mourn for the rest of his life. He would never have the courage to die again.

With all that little strength he had left, he forced out three syllables through cracked, bloody lips.

"Forgive me."

And he was gone.

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_Number 15 was the ending I was considering to use for We are the Differences. I am not kidding. Maybe I'd flesh out that part a bit and wa-la, major angst. But I've had enough of Disney happy endings. I will _not_ give my characters an easy way out. Muahahaha! I'm a cruel creator, eh?_

_As for the "Vegeance"...Maybe I can do a one-shot about that, telling from beginning to end instead of jumping smack in the middle. Depends on you guys._

_~the Apprentice_


	4. Of Scared Boys and Arranged Marriages

Here's another one while I try to unravel the knots of my thoughts to write the nex chapter of _We are the Differences _to finish that story. Do review. I hope you enjoy this.

Oh, and no. 16: a possible crossover between WatD and Lord of the Rings. Under consideration, as always. 

**16. Travelers**

"I hate you," Tempest said for the fifteenth time that day as she glided toward the island in the distance.

"How my heart breaks!" Sweyn Hocksson clutched his chest and feigned a few pained moans. "Ah, how could you, dear friend, say such a thing?"

"It's but a small miracle," Tempest shot back. "I open my mouth and behold, the words come out. Not that hard, really. The same way you drive your brother and friend mad."

Sweyn frowned, leaning forward as they flew near a cloud. "I did not," he said distractedly, watching as the land draws near. It was huge, he decided. Almost like…a continent. He knew Tempest was tired, but he wasn't sure if they really should go down there and take a rest. Out of the fifteen-something lands he'd visited, only three of them have openly welcome dragon and rider pairs such as them. This land might or might not be all _that_ welcoming. The last land had been…disastrous, to say the least. In the end, Tempest had pointedly ignored his plea for her to stay calm as soon as the king asked him how much he was willing to sell her for.

The traveler was sure that ignorant fool of a king would have nightmares about a young dragoness cutting down his beautiful palace with nothing but her wings and tail (for Timberjacks are the second sharpest of all dragons – literally). Sweyn had been forced to stand between the king and Tempest to stop her from roasting him.

It was the first time Sweyn had ever seen his friend throw a fit, and for the love of all dragons, he hoped it would be the last. The ruined castle was enough of a proof for all to see just _what_ a dragon with injured pride could do.

But what does it matter? Sweyn had never been more thrilled in his life when he'd proposed Tempest with the wish that he wishes to travel – and she had accepted. Together, they have visited a wide variety of continents and other places. Sweyn was nineteen now, and Tempest was more than a century old. They could well take care of each other and themselves.

"Okay," Sweyn called. "No stomping down castles this time, got it?"

"Unless the lord wants to buy me," Tempest corrected. Sweyn smiled in spite of himself.

"Fine."

With a tilt of her wings, Tempest glided toward the continent in front of them. It was time to hit earth again. The dragoness thought of the deer she might hunt, and her stomach growled. She had never been so very fond of fish.

Little did they know, Middle-Earth wasn't overly appreciative of dragons.

**17. Seekers**

Lugar Hocksson glanced up from the map in his hands, letting loose a long, tired sigh. This was _not_ good, he decided. For the thousandth time, he cursed his little brother for being such a skilled hunter and being able to cover his tracks, figuratively even. This was the fifth continent he'd encountered, and asking around had not helped him any.

Between Sweyn and that accursed she-dragon, the swordsman was starting to think he needs divine intervention to find them.

"I do not understand why they suddenly had the irresistible urge to go exploring world-wide," he huffed. "Couldn't they have left a clue as to where they might go?"

"Would you have left a clue if _you_ want to run?" a voice asked from behind. Lugar turned back to face the dark purple dragon who was studying him with yellow eyes, the very picture of innocence. He gave the grown-up Toxic Nightshade a withering glance.

"You're not helping, Trouble," he accused.

"Who said I am?" Trouble shrugged. He'd hit his growth spurt a year back, and had since tripled his side. Now he was about the size of a normal Night Fury – and he would keep growing, it seems. If there was one thing about Nightshades, they grew fast. "I understand Tempest's motives for helping your brother and I appreciate it. I would have done the same for you. She will try everything in her power to live up to his wish, so don't expect it to be easy if you want to find them."

Lugar nodded. "Exactly our problem." He glared at the map. One-eyed or not, Lugar had perfected his _look_ some time back. "For the love of Odin, where the heck are you, Sweyn?"

Trouble curled his long tail around his rider, his eyes staring straight ahead into the night. Frustrated silence engulfed them both, and nothing could be heard save the crackling sound of their campfire. The dragon could understand his friend's rider's reasons for fleeing. He didn't want a life controlled by others.

Lugar, on the other hand, could not fathom why his little brother ran away from a marriage arrangement with the chieftain's daughter. Alfdis was fine, in his opinion. And the two of them have been fast friends for many years. So why not?

But…Lugar shivered. He'd also been forced to flee Death Rock when his mother had arranged his marriage with his best friend's sister. _That_ had been a nightmare.

"Thanks, Trouble," he said suddenly. _For not mentioning that I ran with my tail between my legs, too._

Had the dragon been able to smirk, he would have. Instead, his eyes flashed. "You are welcome, my friend." He remembered what Tempest had told him awhile back. It was a simple observation regarding the brothers they have chosen as partners.

_I think they have mutual fears regarding females and mating,_ the dragoness had commented.

Trouble looked at his friend's disturbed expression. He snorted. _Perceptive_ _dragoness,_ he thought.

**18. Female Musings**

Far away, on Death Rock, Alfdis was currently busy doing her weaving. She didn't enjoy fighting like most females in her village. She was more contented to just sit on the sideline, wait for the warriors to return from battle so she could patch them up. Besides, she thought, weaving and making things were more her style.

There was a sudden knock on the door. "My dad isn't here!" she called distractedly. "Try the city hall!"

Much to her surprise, the door swung open. She glanced up from her work quizzically to see a damp, furious-looking Hoverbee. Oh. Her brother probably pushed her into the pond or something. Behind her, expectedly, was the sympathetic-looking Bone Snapper she'd befriended, shielding her from prying eyes with growls and snarls.

Alfdis rose and quickly went to get dry towels while Hoverbee coaxed her worried dragon to stay outside. When she returned, the other girl was sitting on the floor, the door closed and probably guarded with the bony dragon. Hoverbee grunted her thank-you and dried her hair with the towel while Alfdis sat down next to her, waiting patiently.

Finally, when she was done, Hoverbee looked at Alfdis. "Hey, why do you think those Hocksson idiots run away?" she asked suddenly.

Alfdis shrugged. "Sweyn's never really the type to settle down somewhere for long. I guess this island's no longer satisfying his thirst of traveling. And I do believe those merchants' stories are getting to him." She was torn between relief and worry. She knew he loves her dearly as a friend and she him, but she had to agree about their marriage being hasty and illogical. But she wouldn't call him a coward openly.

Hoverbee nodded thoughtfully. "You think Lugar ran away because I am ugly?" she mused.

"Nah," Alfdis shook her head. "Lugar wanted to find Sweyn. I can appreciate that." She paused. "Besides, I think Lugar didn't want to insult your brother."

That much was true. Lugar and Stinkerbee, Hoverbee's brother, had been best friends for many years. However, the latter's attitude toward his little sister's marriage with his best friend had…not been terribly positive. Might just be another reason why it sent the brave and best swordsman they've had in this generation a run for his money, and a reasonable one as well.

For awhile longer, they remained quiet. Then, from Hoverbee:

"Are all males forced into marriage idiots?"

"Yeah," Alfdis agreed.

Just another thing to strengthen the bond between the friends.

**19. Reunion**

It was a bright morning on a hill in a golden field in a land that lied between one continent and the other. The sky was a brilliant blue, calm and not very sunny. Lazy white clouds drifted away toward the horizon. Winds rustled the old willow tree standing atop the hill, whisperings that sounded like laughter.

Perfection.

Standing underneath the tree were two figures. Aside from hair and eyes colors, they looked remarkably alike. Most would have said they were brothers, and they would have been right. The two were brothers. They appeared to be trading some words.

Then suddenly the taller, one-eyed one grabbed the other's collar and started shaking him, yelling a stream of profanities and generally "what in the name of merciful gods were you _thinking_?" The other one broke free and made a wild dash for it, and the two brothers were suddenly performing a chase around the willow.

"And I was enjoying the break," Tempest said wistfully, looking at the commotion with distaste. She was currently sitting at the foot of the hill, looking at the golden fields beyond. The dragoness did not even turn when the shorter of the two insufferable humans cried out for help. He deserved it.

"There is no break for the wicked," Trouble sighed, looking dreamily at the beautiful sky. "Unfortunately, we are accomplices of said wicked.

The two dragons sat in silence, feeling the winds rustle between their scales, their momentary peace broken only by the sounds of screams and garbled excuses behind them.

"Should we stop them?" Trouble asked at last.

"Nay," Tempest shook her head. "After everything they put us through, let them solve this problem between themselves for once."

"Couldn't have agreed more," the Nightshade agreed. He sighed again before burying his head into his leg and prepared for a nap. He deserved this. Let him have a break and let the humans fight their petty fights by themselves. He was a dragon. He couldn't care less.

Tempest grinned all of a sudden. "Wanna bet?"

Trouble opened one eye to look at her. "They are our friends," he said. "Isn't that…a little wicked?"

"Of course. You are right."

Shuffling. Screams. Curses. A sigh.

"What do you want to bet on?"

**20. Parents**

Hock the Craftsmaster lifted his head from the book he was reading. "Willow," he called. His wife, sitting across their living room, looked up from the sword she was busy sharpening. She raised an eyebrow quizzically.

"You think our sons are fine?"

Willow smiled. "You worried too much. Each of them has a dragon. They will be fine." _They'd better be,_ she added mentally.

Hock frowned, although he nodded. "Right. I am just…Nay. It's only a feeling. But I could have sworn I had this worry for a bit –" He stopped as his wife gave him a kiss on the forehead.

"They are not children anymore, Hock," she said gently. "They know the risks. And neither is on his own."

Hock conceded to that point. He sent thanks to the heavens, for the fiftieth time over the past year, for the contract the Vikings of his village have formed with the dragons. The gods weren't without mercy, after all. He glanced at the beaded bracelet tied to his wife's wrist, made by one grey-eyed, black-haired child so many years ago. Then he looked toward the sheathed sword leaned against the table, given to him by another kid.

The man closed his eyes. Yes, they weren't children anymore.

He wasn't sure if he should feel joy or loss.

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Best way to escape an arranged marriage: get on your dragon and _flee_!

I'll try that if I have the chance.


	5. Concerning Traveling and Berkians

I am currently bored out of my mind and mulling over the sequel to WatD. I can't believe it! I said I wanted a vacation, so why am I still _thinking about the friggin' sequel_? Yes, it is all _your_ fault! -points finger accusingly at readers- You left me so many good reviews I feel bad for not working!

And I can't say I hate you. Darn.

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**20. Voyage**

"I don't get it," Astrid said as she watched the two figures, one dressed in black and the other dressed in green bending over the hull of the ship, busy producing painful retching noises for all to hear. "How come both of them are fine on dragon-back doing all those nauseous-looking acrobatic stuff with cheers, but put them on a boat and suddenly all they had attention for was their stomachs' protests?" She winced as a particularly loud retch came from Hiccup. Sweyn followed close behind.

Ruffnut shrugged, pulling up the fish net she'd cast over the side up and looking over the catches. "I dunno. Boys are weird like that," she said, her eyes suddenly brightening as she spotted an unfortunate crab and picked it up. Ruffnut turned to look at her brother who was having his back – well, butts – to her as he bent over his own net, and a mischievous glint sparked in her eyes. Fishlegs, standing nearby, started backing away. He was the second smartest of the group, and even if he couldn't put two and two together, everyone knew that there would be bloody war when one of the twins had that "look" in their eyes.

Sure enough, five seconds later found Lugar sprawled on the deck and desperately avoiding Tuffnut's dancing feet as the other teen panicked over the crab clasped firmly on his right buttock. Ruffnut was sprawled on her back laughing like a crazed woman while Alfdis and Astrid just shot each other the by-the-gods-what-have-I-done-to-deserve-this look, then turned their eyes to the heavens as one girl.

Keg and Snotlout temporarily paused their epic argument over working out and body figures for a bit to watch the ensuing chaos. When Lugar had successfully evaded Tuffnut and had yanked the crab off his pants (and taking a bit of said pants with it), they turned back to their talk. Tuffnut throwing himself at Ruffnut and declaring war wasn't something new. It was actually very, very old.

Up by the clouds, Tempest and Trouble turned to glance at Toothless and the Berkian dragons. The question was clear in their gazes, and it wasn't as if it was the first time the latter lot had been given that look anyway.

"Yes, that just happened," Toothless grumbled.

**21. Lesson in Riding**

"So you just hold the handle like that," Sweyn instructed, pointing to the handle that looked sort of identical to the handles of baskets (although much bigger and firmer) at the head of the saddle. "Lean left or right if you want Tempest to fly that way. Lean forward for more speed. Lean back to slow down. Kick her left flank if you want to dive. Kick right if you want to go up. Scream like a girl if you want to land. Easy?"

"Yeah, sure," Lugar muttered, looking uncharacteristically giddy and nervous at the same time. Well, it _was_ his first time flying Tempest solo, after all. Sweyn had somehow manage to break his leg and not his neck when he somehow tumbled down a cliff ("I swear it was an accident!" Sweyn had exclaimed when Lugar and Tempest both started brandishing their sword and claws), and now he decided to avenge himself by forcing his brother on a flight. Lugar was a Viking; he wouldn't say no to a challenge like this.

Sometimes, Lugar thought, looking at his cheekily-smiling little brother, he regretted ever having asked Odin for a brother who had a brain. This one turned out having too much brain.

"It's really cool," Alfdis assured him, smiling sympathetically. Still, she stood next to Sweyn. Traitor. "And Tempest isn't your average horse or donkey. She's as smart as any human – or even more so." She directed her smile at Tempest, who blinked back.

"So how does she know that I'm leaning to the right because I want her to go right and not because I'm about to fall?" Lugar asked, sliding his feet into the pedals created to help keep Sweyn's legs out of the razor-sharp wings' reach.

"In that case, open your mouth and scream 'I'm about to fall off!'" Sweyn shrugged like he was telling Lugar the sky was blue.

"And what if I'm too shocked to and fall off her?"

The look on Sweyn's face told him exactly how his little brother thought about that. "A pity, then," he said, deadpan. Lugar rolled his eyes and straightened on the saddle. "Lean forward," Sweyn coached. "Always lean forward at the start." Lugar obeyed, and Tempest strode forward.

In a few seconds, she hit a jog, then a run, then finally, a gallop. The cliff was approaching, and Lugar clenched his jaw to stop himself from leaping off and running in the opposite direction, as his instincts screamed for him to do. After all, nobody sane would want to launch himself off a cliff –

Tempest leaped, spreading her wings in a flourish, caught a wind current and glided down. For a few moments, Lugar was rendered speechless as the ocean surface drew nearer. They never touched it, though. With one flap of her wings, Tempest brought them higher, and soon she was climbing the sky.

When they've reached a height that the dragoness was comfortable with, Tempest finally stopped and flew straight forward, soaring over the land. Lugar closed his eyes as the high winds brushed back his hair, caressing his face. He grinned. So _this_ is what flying feel like? No wonder Sweyn was so insistent that he tries it. He'd never even imagine how being up so high like this would be like.

But then again, Lugar thought, looking at the back of the dragoness' head, nobody had ever thought of befriending a dragon – until now.

Lugar sat in silence for awhile as Tempest picked her course around Death Rock. They steered clear of the Dragons' Dens and their village. The Viking looked at the green hills and little specks of blue on the ground that were lakes and ponds, wondering how it could look so beautiful from up here and so…normal from down there. But most of all, his eye was captured by the puffy clouds above. They were so close, a little higher and he could touch them.

Reading his intentions, Tempest angled her body and wings, swooping upward. She flew close to clouds, and Lugar reached up with one hand, shying a bit away from the substance, but finally he plunged his hand through – and yelped.

It was cold, like puffs of mist. Freezing, actually, but he found himself laughing with delight at the new discovery. He'd never thought it would be like this. He never thought it could actually happen: him, riding a _dragon_. What would their parents say? Probably tell him to stop spending time around the story-teller and go to the forge for some toughening up.

But they didn't know the truth. He did.

"What I would give to be a dragon," Lugar whispered in awe. A snort of amusement floated back to him, and he realized Tempest had heard it. Grinning, Lugar tilted left. Tempest's response was immediate. She steered left, and from then on, she let him guide her back to the clearing where they've left Sweyn and Alfdis.

"Did anyone ever tell you that you are the luckiest guy on Death Rock?" Lugar told Sweyn once they landed and he'd gotten off Tempest. The dragoness nosed him in affection at the praise, and Sweyn rolled his eyes. Alfdis just laughed.

"I don't need people telling me," the younger boy replied, grinning as he put a hand on Tempest's snout. "I knew that from the beginning."

**22. Stalker**

"I believe we have a stalker," Trouble announced as he tailed Lugar down the busy street of the city. There were glances and whispers, but since the Viking had caught sight of a talking donkey and a winged horse here and there, a dragon couldn't be too bad.

"Bite him," Lugar grumbled, shouldering his knapsack. "Bite him _hard_, and tell him to get his backside away from me before I shove my sword up where the sun doesn't shine." He was not in the best of mood right then. Sweyn had run off to do something-or-other – again – and Lugar was a tad bit worried about his newfound little brother running away from him – again – although it was not likely. After all, both of them had decided that since their brides were probably waiting back home, they should go missing for now. It shouldn't have been a problem, really, had that cart not nearly crush his toe. Then that woman at the fish stall decided to throw rotten products at him because he had a dragon. Then that shoe-maker, too, going all paranoid about one-eyed bandits which resulted in a shoe in his face. Trouble had to pull him away from that one.

One lady looked at him like he was mad, and he glared back at her. She pulled her child away from him, hurrying her steps to walk into the opposite direction as them. Lugar rolled his eye at the overly-fussy female as he tugged on his cloak's hood. It was an irritatingly sunny day. Lugar could not remember a worse sunny day.

"Oh, come on, Lugar," Trouble said soothingly, gently nudging his friend's shoulder. "Be civil. Just stop and ask him what he wants."

"You sure it's a he?" Lugar grumbled, not stopping.

"Well, you are the one who called him a 'he' first, but yes, I am pretty sure. He smells like a man underneath all that white lily scent."

Lugar's eye went to the heavens. "Oh great. So we got a homosexual stalker. Where are Sweyn and his dragoness when you need them?" Still, his eye searched the crowd. After a few seconds, Lugar quickened his pace, taking a different route and leaving the crowded streets behind, slipping into a system of back alleys that ran throughout the entire city. Trouble was silent; he didn't need instructions. He was used to this kind of plan.

There was silence except for Trouble's and his own footsteps for awhile, but he knew his dragon would have warned him if their stalker had taken a different route. He'd said nothing, though, so this stalker was extremely light on his feet…or maybe he wasn't walking at all. Believe it or not, Lugar had seen enough women sitting on their fancy-carved staves flying around to know that some wizards preferred peculiar transportations.

Still, he was there. Lugar felt his eyes.

When they've come to an empty area, Lugar waited for ten seconds before inclining his head curtly. There was a 'swish' behind him, then a soft snarl and a few sounds of struggle before it all ended with the noise of a claw being smacked down on flesh.

"You are either very stupid or very careless," Lugar remarked, glaring down at the hooded figure lying in the dirt with Trouble's left foreclaw pressed down on his neck. He was a man alright, at least in body. Lugar shuddered to think what he was in the mind. "Now, who are you and what do you want?"

Their stalker stiffened, but said nothing. "Well?" the Viking prodded, his patience wearing thin. "I have a very idiotic little brother to beat up, so if you do not hurry, I'm afraid Trouble will have to bite you. And just so you know, Toxic Nightshade dragons are highly poisonous."

It was a bit of an empty threat, but Lugar knew too well that Trouble _will_ bite if the stranger showed even the slightest indication that he meant his rider harm. Toxic Nightshades are born hunters, after all, and they were especially vicious when threatened.

The stalker hissed what sounded like a highly offending sentence in a strange language, his voice strangely lilting. Lugar's eye narrowed. Oh, no way, it couldn't be…

"Trouble, off him," the Viking ordered. When Trouble gave him an incredulous look, Lugar added, "Trust me."

Five seconds later, Trouble was standing behind Lugar, wrapping himself around the young man protectively as he glared at the man who was regaining his feet in front of them. "You need to train that dragon of yours to be more polite," the man – or not quite so – huffed, glaring right back as he cast back his hood, revealing silver hair, a pair of keen green eyes and delicately pointed ears.

Lugar raised his eyebrow. "And what do _you_ think you are doing, elf?"

The elf shrugged. "Oh, nothing. Following you."

For a few seconds, Lugar seemed to mull over this newcomer. Then he shrugged. "Trouble, you may now beat up the idiot."

With that, he turned and kept walking. Who cares? After all, elf or no, he was just a stalker. And stalkers deserve punishments delivered on them by cranky Vikings.

Even if said stalker was an old friend.

_Especially_ if said stalker lied to said Viking about not being able to travel.

**23. Home**

Tempest landed seventy paces in front of their house. Trouble followed her example, and they stopped there, looking at the building across from them with varying degrees of nervousness. It had been many years, and they did bring back a few strange people after all. Sweyn felt the arms of his companion around his waist tighten reassuringly, and turned to see her smile at him. It couldn't be that bad, could it?

Could it?

The two dragons exchanged a glance and started walking forward again slowly, making growling noises in their throats to announce their arrival. At first, nothing happened. Then suddenly the door swung open and two figures stepped out.

Sweyn swallowed the lump in his throat. He was twenty-three, damn it! He should not feel this nervous facing an old couple, he chided himself. But the truth was, he was terrified. It had been long years since he last met his parents, and it had _not_ been in his plan to bring back a wife with him. Lugar, maybe, but not him.

Hock and Willow looked from one son to another, noting how each of them had one companion sitting behind them in their saddles. Then they went to the finer details, looking at the brothers' newfound beards. Finally, their eyes raked over the two women who've followed their sons home. One was a dark-haired, dark-eyed woman with sharp features that told them she'd come from the far east. The other was brown-haired and blue-eyed. Neither were overly pretty, but they seemed good enough.

In the end, it was Willow who broke the silence.

Smiling so that her eyes crinkled, she said, "I think we have a right to know our daughters-in-law before we leave for Valhalla."

Without a word, Lugar and Sweyn Hocksson jumped off their dragons and launched into their parents' arms like young children. Said parents merely looked at each other and smiled. They've waited for this many long years.

Their wayward sons were home.

Now, it was finally time to address the grandchildren issue.

**24. Direction**

"Who told you it was a good idea to ask a _gnome_ for directions, huh?" Sweyn growled, ducking his head to dodge a bat going for his eyeballs. Tempest snatched it from the air with one quick movement and started chewing, the sound too loud and uncomfortable in her rider's ears.

Elheledh looked about ready to convulse. "Do these creatures have no hygiene?" he asked nobody in particular, his voice painted with horror.

"Silence, elf, before I slice off your ears myself," Lugar grunted sourly, sloshing around in the dark, murky water underneath them. "Why couldn't you have stayed in that Middle-Earth of yours and leave me alone? Why on _Earth_ did you have to hitch a ride West, get snatched by pirates and was transported here, huh, huh? I thought the way to Valinor was supposed to be safe!"

"It is!" Elheledh protested. "At least it was. Blame Morgana." He shuddered at the memory of the witch. That woman – if she was human at all – must have been the creepiest creature he'd seen since…Well, she was not even close to a match to Sauron, but still, she was unnaturally powerful for a witch. The fact that she hated the rest of the world didn't help. The fact that she hated the Hocksson brothers more than the rest of the world didn't help either.

The next three hours were spent wading through the suspiciously dark-red water of the cave. When they finally got to the end of it and out in starlight again, they spotted the gnome they've asked directions from sitting near the mouth's cave humming a cheery tune to himself.

While the dragons and Lugar worked to stop Sweyn from throwing a dagger at the little fellow (and he rarely missed – the angrier he got, the more accurate his aim), Elheledh walked up to the gnome and waved his hand in welcome. The gnome didn't seem to see him. The elf opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it and closed his mouth. Frowning, Elheledh raised his hand and waved it in front of the gnome, then brought it so close it almost touched the surface of the eyes.

Still no reaction.

Calmly straightening up, Elheledh directed his gaze at Lugar. "Well, my friends," he stated. "It appears our gnome is blind."

**25.** **Rude Questions**

"Tempest," nineteen-year-old Sweyn said curiously, striding down a path that led to the village in the distance. "Do you mind if I ask you a question?"

"Feel free," his dragoness answered, glancing at the blue sky with a touch of awe as she saw the giant, sparkling red-and-gold birds sail through the air with elegance. Phoenixes lacked the strength of dragons, but she had to admit, their beauty made up well for majesty.

Sweyn followed her gaze and watched the birds with a smile. Well, he had to admit, they _were_ beautiful. "Why didn't you mate yet?"

For a few moments, there was only silence. Finally, even Sweyn felt unease creeping up his back, and he glanced at the dragoness. Tempest's blue eyes were narrowed, and they held a sort of spark that Sweyn could see whenever she was peeved at the world – or in this case, at him.

"Is it…a rude question?" the human asked, slowly backing away.

"Oh, yes, it is a rude question," Tempest agreed, stepping forward and lowering her head. "It is a very, very rude question indeed."

They looked at each other for a few seconds before Sweyn regained his senses and started running toward the village, screaming. He'd rather chance being seen as a fool chased by his own mount and friend rather than check out what exactly Tempest had in store for him.

He didn't look back. Therefore, he didn't see the growing amusement in his friend's eyes.

"Did he really believe that?" Tempest mused before she started a leisure walk after her friend, all the while mentally praising herself for her acting skill.

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The little mini x-overs with Lord of the Rings just came jumping out of nowhere. But I'm think about a Hiccup/Toothless x-over instead of Tempest and Sweyn. I can pull that off, I think. And excuse the mushy madness in 23. I was running out of ideas. Sorry.

Review! I'll appreciate that very much.

~the Apprentice


	6. More of that Traveling Goodness

_And with this, I prove that I am, in fact, alive. Still planning out the sequel with all the kinks in the plot to work out. I also don't know how many of you have grown bored with How to Train Your Dragon and move on, but I hope you guys still read this. Your reviews hearten me._

_Also, if I do get feedbacks for this chapter, I will continue with the plan of writing a short story that branched from the original WatD, featuring one of Sweyn and Tempest's adventures as they traveled. I've gotten lots of requests about writing real stuff instead of mere ideas, but remember, these are just fleeting thoughts with no beginning or end. I cannot write a story with little ideas like that..._

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**26. Customer**

It was in the worst storm of the century when the stranger arrived.

His age was shocking, Tom remembered. A mere nineteen years of age, the young man was three years younger than his youngest son. He didn't dress in anything fancy; a thick, dark gray cloak that hid his entire body, a simple but durable tunic underneath, trousers, and boots. His face, when he cast off the hood as he stepped into the tavern, was clean-shaven and sharp. He was thin and wiry with hardly any visible muscle with no scar. It was clear his life had not been hard, at least not on his body. Yet his eyes were wary, glancing from one face to another, not missing anything, not willing to miss anything.

Like all traveler, he carried some sort of weapons: a bow and a quiver slung across his back. Aside from that, though, there was nothing else. No sword hilt peeked from underneath his cloak. Not counting his bow, he was unarmed.

After a few moments, the stranger took off his cloak and slung it across his forearm before heading toward the bar. He dropped onto one of the seats in front of Tom, his shoulders sagged in exhaustion. The innkeeper waited for a few seconds before, as traditionally, started off a conversation.

"Worst weather we've had for 'long as I've been alive, I tell ya," Tom said, cleaning the glass he was holding and not looking at the stranger, but he was curious. What kind of sane person would go out in this weather?

The young man smiled at him, dark grey eyes reflecting the fire in the fireplace blazing to his left. "Yeah. I could tell. Worst I've seen, too, and I live up north. I was glad I reached here before lightning strikes me."

One corner of Tom's mouth curved upward slightly at the joke. Not a secretive, shadowy fellow, then. He had the feeling he was going to like this one. "North, eh? Ya live near the Vikings, then?" he asked.

"I do." The stranger paused for a second before looking at Tom with curious eyes. "Do they like them around here?"

At the question, Tom raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Not really. We've got a few fellows 'round 'ere who got their ships ran over by those savages." It was true; many a sailor would throw a hissy-fit along with pointy objects if they've only heard the _mention_ of the northern seadogs. "Why do cha ask?"

The stranger shrugged, running a hand through his shoulder-length raven hair. "I'm a traveler. I'm just trying to see how many people my neighbors have pissed off around this part. After all, I _do_ live up north. You would not believe how it is up there."

Now it was Tom's turn to shrug. "Sucks for ya. I probably could tell what it feels like. Oh, yeah, and I heard they raise dragons up there. That true?"

The man nodded. "Very true. Vikings on dragon-back. What could be more frightening?" he mused. "The southern civilization should start catching up."

"We have unicorns and pegasi," Tom informed him. The innkeeper grimaced as he remembered the last time he had to deal with a dragon. "And I prefer those things than the reptiles. They are mellower, for the most part. Those fire-breathing menaces are just too much trouble." Excluding his son's, of course. The dragon had been the most adorable pet for centuries to see.

The stranger looked at him funnily for a few seconds before stating, "You tried to control it by force, didn't you?"

Tom blinked in surprise, but nodded. "How did ya guess?"

"Because I have seen mistakes like that before. Horses and giant, magical birds you _maybe_ can control, but dragons are ferocious by nature. They are civilized, yes, but that does not mean they will not fight." He spoke as though he knew a lot about dragons, and Tom suspected that he did. His voice was firm and matter-of-fact, which means he'd had contact with those beasts before, perhaps extensively.

But that didn't change much. Tom had seen more than one customer coming here with one of those oversized lizards tailing them. So the kid knows about dragons. Big deal. He might as well have been a researcher. Nothing to worry about.

"You got that from personal experience or what?" the innkeeper asked lightly.

"Oh, yes. Northern breeds of dragons are a little bit violent." The stranger worked to squeeze the water out of his cloak. He said it lightly, too, but Tom wasn't about to forget the last time he had a confrontation with a Monstrous Nightmare. The damn beast had nearly destroy his livelihood, and he had hold a grudge against most dragons since then. "You got dragons around here?"

The question pulled Tom back to the present. "Hm? Ah, yes, we do, although not for transportation. For that we use horses and other down-to-earth methods. Nothing, ya know, 'magical'. Little house pets like Terrible Terrors and the like."

Done with the cloak, the stranger looked up, his eyes sparkling with humor. "And Toxic Nightshades?"

"Yup, that breed, too. Great hunters, those guys."

"Although very defensive and mother-hen at times."

"No kiddin'. We nearly had to go to court when my son's chap nearly killed the bully downtown." _That_ venture had been one of the best the entire decade. At least it taught people that Drake was not one to be trifled with. Or his dragon.

To this, the stranger nodded in acknowledgement. "That is usually true. Dragons are generally protective. The rider is often treated as a dragonet or a sibling. Perhaps closer."

Tom raised his eyebrow. "Like a lover?" The idea sounded repulsive, and it came out in a disgusted tone. But the young man shook his head.

"No. There are many aspects to a dragon-rider relationship, but never romance. Something…deeper. Like, well, twins." Now he was taking off his boots to rid them of the water. His eyes were far away, as though he was remembering something. Something good, Tom guessed, because the young man smiled for real the first time since they've met.

While waiting for his customer to come back down to earth again, Tom served up two glasses of wine and set a third down in front of this interesting new character. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Sweyn," the stranger replied. He smiled suddenly. "Sweyn Loriané. Nice to meet you." It was a peculiar surname, but Tom had certainly heard worse.

"Tom," he said, smiling so that his bushy beard moved. "Tom Trace. Nice to meet cha."

Sweyn smiled. "Nice to meet you as well. Now, how about a little story?"

**27. Falling**

He increased his speed even though his lungs burned with exertion. He could hear them behind him, thundering, unnaturally loud footsteps and shouted cheers as they relished in the hunt. It was totally unfair. They had horses while _he_ only had his own two legs. It was _so_ unfair!

And yet he had no time to dwell on that thought. His speed had been one of the things he was proud of, but in the end, he was only human. Humans cannot match with horses. He wad doomed.

Like a charm, he suddenly found himself at the end of a cliff. Turning back, he noticed with a sinking heart that they've caught up to him: fifty men dressed in soldiers' clothes with sneering expressions on their faces and different, lethal weapons in their hands. This felt familiar.

Oh, of _course_! He'd been in this situation before. Except these humans seem rather puny compared to the white, striped beast who had stared at him with sky-blue eyes that would've been beautiful had there not been that bone-chilling satisfaction and delight in them.

Talk about history repeating itself…

"Why don't you keep running, brat?" the lead man sneered, the hunger in his eyes sending shivers down his back. He leveled his spear. "Oops, I forgot. You can't tread on air." With that, they started advancing on him. He backed off but stopped as soon as his heel slipped over the edge. Tearing his gaze from the enemies, he glanced down at the ocean below. This was so like last time it was freaky…

And maybe, maybe, it would be just like last time, too…

He glanced back at the men and their triumphant faces. Their weapons gleamed in the moonlight. He bit his lip. It wasn't as if he had a choice, anyway.

With one look at the men, he turned…and jumped.

The air rushed past him with dizzying speed, and for one second, as the dark, churning ocean and jagged rocks drew closer, he was suddenly overwhelmed by panic. Fear. The cold touch of death. He almost lost the ability to breathe.

Then it was over. A sharp cry sounded in the air, and suddenly he was slammed against something cold, a little hard…and scaly. He nearly cried in relief. The relief was so great that he could easily ignore the murderous look those familiar blue eyes directed at him as she turned her head before shooting upward, her intention clear.

He smiled. What was there to worry about? She would always catch him.

**28. Mute**

Sweyn never told anyone, but he did not start talking until he was four.

Mute children are often killed, since in the Viking society, they were useless. They could not warn others of danger, nor can they communicate. It would be one less mouth to feed, for all they cared. And Sweyn had nearly been one of them. His family was desperate for him to talk, but the child never did, instead staring at them silently with accessing grey eyes before nodding and walking away.

The gods know how many times Lugar got beaten in swordplay around that time. He'd always been at the top of his class, but he could not even go up against the Loser. It was known that Stinkerbee had been forced to jump in once to keep his friend from getting his eye poked out (which happened anyway, except a little later).

Five days before the chieftain, Alfdis' father, decided Sweyn's fate, he spoke. It was during the first dragon raid the boy had experienced.

There, amidst the crowd of Vikings in the village square as they prepared to face the beasts that aim to destroy and blunder their homes, the boy, now nearly four, had screamed out in wonderment.

"_Dragons!_"

**29. Records**

There are many more winged, mountable beasts than just dragons. Some of them are more or less as intelligent as them, and all of them came in different shapes and sizes and species. To Sweyn, it was finding out all these creatures that drove him to travel so vastly. He hopped lands every few months, cataloging everything that could be a match for dragons and other fascinating things.

Among his few possessions that he carried around constantly, there was a sketchbook. It was a thick stack of parchment put together with a blue, leather cover. That and a quill that was always put in it. The quill was plucked from a Scholar Phoenix, so it has its own, never-run-out ink. In there, he kept pictures and observations he got from his findings.

With time, the collection grew, and Sweyn was forced to buy another sketchbook. Then another. Then another. He learned more words and writings as he progressed, along with artistic skills.

Ten years later, he was the author of the renowned volumes _A Look into Mythical Creatures_, _Guide to Winged Beasts_, _The Hidden Lands_ and, among them, the infamous _Classification of Dragons_ books, along with a bunch of adventures that he'd written down in his journeys, all signed under a simple name: "the Apprentice". It was still the stuff of legend five thousand years later, when he and everyone who knew him personally was long dead.

Historians, however, never found his recount of how it all began, with a simple walk through the woods gone wrong and how it lead to the best years of his life.

**30. Hero**

There was one thing that connected all female Vikings together: loss.

Almost always, their husbands would die before them. Or their sons. Or their daughters. Or, if they were lucky – or unlucky – their grandchildren. But you get used to it. You get used to the fact that one day the man and the boy you love more than anything else in the world will walk out…and never return again.

Viking life was shaky. It always had been. The only constant in it is that loss is a sure thing to come, sooner or later. There is no changing that rule. There is no option. No shortcut. No way around it. You just have to adapt. All born-and-raised Viking knew this. All those who lived in such constant war knows it.

Helena, wife of Sweyn Hocksson, was no Viking. She was warned of this when they joined hands, yes, but she'd thought her husband invincible. He was a shifty fellow, lurking in the background, a story-teller first and foremost and warrior dead last. He seriously wasn't the type that would die.

In some ways, she was right. But he died nonetheless. He died not because of warfare or invaders, however. He died not because of a dragon. He died not because of an accident or old age.

Sweyn contracted tuberculosis at age twenty-nine. He lived for six years before it took his life, leaving behind a wife, a five-year-old son…and a dragoness who never stops grieving.

He was, in some ways, a hero. And heroes never get happy endings.

* * *

_Number thirty is not set in stone. I don't know how Sweyn will die yet, but be assured he will. He can't live forever._


	7. The Many Colors of a Dragon Rider

_Upon planning my short story, I realized I had much on Tempest but awfully short and vague facts about Sweyn or his brother, who were both supposed to play major parts in the sequel. I know it's really late now, but I had rather give you the best I can or nothing at all. My belief lies in quality, not quantity or time, so please, bear with me._

_A series of drabbles in order for me to get more used to Sweyn's perspective. I'm starting to like him better than Tempest now. Wow._

**

* * *

**

**31. Instinct**

It was an instinct, like how an animal knew when something was threatening its survival. Sweyn was the same. The moment that boulder started to topple downward, he bolted to the left, where he would be safe. Daylight. Far away from danger. Yes, _he_ would be safe.

Combined with his natural speed and the adrenaline pumping through his veins, Sweyn made it. He rolled twice, then landed on all four like a tiger ready to pounce even as a dull but loud _thud_ sounded too close to his head, wide eyes staring at the boulder that was now buried several inches into the hard soil. Its weight had not belied its size. Sweat poured off his face in rivers. His heartbeats were so loud he could hardly hear his thoughts above the din – not that there were any, of course.

In front of him was a war-hammer. He knew it. He saw it almost everyday in his life, and many times he'd seen it make its way toward his head or some part of his body that would hurt like Hel damned thrice over. For as long as he could remember, Sweyn had detested the sight of it and its wielder both.

Now there was no hatred. Just horror. Anger. And that tiny but growing corner of guilt. Sweyn wanted to tear his gaze away from the familiar weapon, but he didn't – because if he did, he knew his gaze would be drawn to the boulder and any body part that sticks out from underneath it while the main body was crushed beyond recognition.

Sweyn felt sick. Keg was dead. Just because Sweyn's animal instinct told him to run.

But there was still that small joy of knowing he was alive, and that was not _him_ underneath that rock, dead in a very messy way.

Yes, there would be no honor or pride, but there would be joy. Dirty and tainted as it might be.

**32. To Understand**

"It's not your fault."

His brother didn't understand.

"I know," he forced out anyway. He didn't even attempt a smile.

A sigh. Footsteps. Then the mattress shifted next to him as his brother lowered himself down on the bed. They were quite close, their shoulders only five inches apart. Compared to the usual (fights and "wrestling lessons" not counting), it was quite close.

He didn't glance over.

The heavy silence stretched on like the most torturous of torments. Neither of them said anything, not quite knowing what to say without sounding corny, stupid or just outright inappropriate and insensitive in that situation. What _was_ there to say? Someone they've known all their lives, even though not as a friend, was dead. And one of them was the murderer.

"It's not you who pushed that boulder," his brother said suddenly, his voice firm.

He glanced over, dark grey eyes tired and haunted. "It's also not me who pushed Keg out of the way."

"Not that I would blame you, really. At least that boulder flattened his two extra feet of attitude."

Ah, humor. The usual tactic his brother would resort to when he was either hopelessly depressed or in an extreme, murderous rage. The latter had not happened since…when? He couldn't even remember. But the former had happened several times.

He didn't think he was either. He wasn't depressed. No, really. He was just…

Tired. Frightened. Horrified. Disgusted at himself. Happy to be alive.

"I told him I would knock him down to his place some day," he said hollowly. "I…never meant it quite that way."

His brother snorted. "Leave it to the gods to make some lame pun, even in death." A pause. "It also wasn't your choice to run."

He winced visibly at this. Of course, his companion's sharp eye did not miss the reaction. Understanding dawned on the one-eyed Viking's face even as the younger of the two turned his own away, trying to find a way to avoid this. There was no hope, however. The former was a very direct person, and beating around the bush hadn't been a trait visible in any Vikings. This one was no different.

Silence again. This time even thicker and more awkward than the first.

It was he who moved first, who could no longer stand it and could no longer hold back the shame (_don'tlieyou'renotshamefulbutafraid_). The door slammed behind him as he fled the scene.

After nearly fifteen minutes of sitting silent like a statue, staring out the window at the gloomy rain beyond, Lugar started to move. Sweyn had left the house, he was sure. Either he would run to Tempest or he would seek his solitude somewhere else.

Either way, they needed to talk. And not about Keg's death. Not about Sweyn's reaction in that crucial moment when the boulder fell. Something else. However savvy and outright lame as it sounded.

Sweyn was wrong. He understood. With a bit of prodding and fifteen years of waiting, but he _did_ understand.

**33. Envy**

As long as he'd lived, Sweyn could easily see the way Lugar was favored over him.

Whether it was a pat on the head or a compliment or a hug – rarely as those came – it was almost always Lugar who got it. Sweyn hardly did anything the "right" way in his life with his parents and everyone else, and so all he got was disappointment thinly veiled out of politeness (from his parents) or outright disgusted whispers behind his back when he could hear it or, in some cases, straight to his face. Even with his skills as a hunter and tracker, everyone liked his brother better than him.

Sweyn's name wasn't well-remembered. He was known as "Lugar's little brother" or "Lugar's sibling" more than _Sweyn_. Alfdis was the only one who didn't refer to him as such unless necessary, along with his parents. But they didn't really count. He knew them all his life and they he. The rest?…Well, Lugar just cast too big a shadow for him to step out of.

From fighting skills to courage to being a "proper" Viking to sailing to motivational preaching to adapting in different environments, Lugar always was the best. His age group was only a few steps short of actually worshipping the one-eyed young man. Lugar was all his mother would talk about when they got together in the trading seasons. Sweyn knew this because he often followed them from a distance.

It stung. The unfairness of it made him ache with envy, and sometimes the ache even turned into white-hot stabs that nearly made him spill tears, especially when he was younger. He never showed it, though. He was always good at concealing his feelings. Even when it hurts to be treated as though you were the little mushroom attached to the side of a great tree, unneeded but still there.

Many a year did it take for Sweyn to understand that Lugar, like every other creatures in the world, wasn't perfect. Yet it still stung, from time to time. Just not as strongly as before.

The pain wouldn't go away, though. Ever. Because unless his brother is dead, he would always be the lesser one. And that wasn't what Sweyn wished, no matter how much he wanted to beat Lugar at his own game sometimes.

**34. Shame**

"Brother?"

Lugar stopped his sharpening of his sword with an irritable sigh. The twelve-year-old boy with the single eye was still feeling quite fatigued, not to mention his newly-lost eye kept giving him one hell of pain almost constantly, although the healer had make sure it was not going to get infected. He'd been cooped up near his house for awhile, however, and the restraint was getting to him.

Undeniably, his mood wasn't exactly on cloud nine.

"Yes, Sweyn?" he hissed through gritted teeth, resisting the urge to raise a hand and touch the bandage covering half his face.

Silence. Lugar's mood quickly deteriorated, and he was about to snap when his little brother's voice, quieter but still clear in the silent Frigg's Day afternoon, continued.

"Am I a shame to you?"

The question startled Lugar into turning around and looking at Sweyn in shock. It was a regretful decision, however, as sharp pain shot through his head. He cursed vehemently, clutching at the aforementioned limb in agony. It faded in time, and when he looked back, Sweyn was still there. Grey eyes exactly like their mother's were drilling into him.

It was unnerving, but Lugar forced himself to stay calm. He was seven years older than this midget. What could hurt? The answer came to him quickly, but he hesitated. What if…? No. Brother or not, Lugar wasn't one who sugar-coats his words. It was blunt honesty or nothing at all.

"I would wish for someone stronger than you."

He was wrong. It did hurt. The grey eyes darkened, and the seven-year-old boy's face grew grave. For a second and a second only, Lugar saw something that in later years he would recognize as the disappointment and pain of hearing brutal truth. Then it was over, and little Sweyn nodded wordlessly. He turned and walked away, his posture only slightly stiff.

Lugar watched until his brother disappeared out of sight before turning back to his work. He tried to banish that little ache in his chest and grumbled when it refused to go away as fast he would like it. Sweyn _asked_ him to say the truth, for Thor's sake, and he did just that. There was no way he could be blamed in this.

The young Viking lost a good amount of sleep that night, no matter how he kept telling himself that it was ridiculous to be so worked up over something so trivial.

Sweyn never talked much to him after that. Lugar didn't try too hard to close that rift, either. He would like to think he had no time for such thing, what with the dragon raids and all the misfortunes the winds blew to their lonely village in the middle of nowhere – but the truth is, it was pride that stilled his tongue.

To his credits, Lugar was indeed honest. He wanted a sibling whom he could show to his friend proudly instead of having to hurriedly steer the conversation away from that subject whenever someone touched on it. He just didn't know at the time how deep the knife cuts.

**35. One-Strike Kill**

Lugar stared at the dark-haired boy in front of him as though he'd never seen him before in his life. And maybe he hadn't. Well, he _did_ see him before; just not _know_ him. The boy he knew – or thought he knew – was a quiet individual who did his own things at his own pace and valued his life and safety above everything else. A coward by definition, really.

"Why didn't you tell me of this before?" Lugar asked in a fierce whisper. They were locked in their houses, with their parents nowhere in sight and two foreign enemies guarding the door. Even so, they were allowed the luxury of having the house mostly to themselves.

Grey eyes looked at him for a long moment, and Lugar felt himself being accessed by what seemed akin to a dragon trying to judge its prey's strength. Then the answer came, flat and matter-of-factly.

"I don't trust you."

It shouldn't have stung that much, but it did.

Four words. After all the shame and the negative feelings Sweyn had caused him, it only took four words for Lugar to bite the dust and be unable to get up.


End file.
